


Dawn's Early Light

by idelthoughts



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Caretaking, Episode: s05e05 Red Dawn, Fainting, Fandom Stocking 2016, Gen, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, PTSD, Pre-Series, Self-Defense, Team Bonding, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-16 02:27:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9269579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idelthoughts/pseuds/idelthoughts
Summary: Patrick Jane is unpredictable, and understanding him is a slow process. The CBI is using him, and Jane is using them right back—but he's still part of the team. Whatever that means.





	1. Lisbon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ruuger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruuger/gifts).



> I stumbled across fandom_stocking thanks to [LadySilver](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySilver/pseuds/LadySilver), and decided to give it a shot. Happy holidays, Ruuger!

Give Patrick Jane an inch and he’d take a mile. Lisbon learned that in the first forty-eight hours of knowing him.

The morning she came in to find him sleeping on a couch he’d installed in the bullpen, surrounded by the Red John file boxes, she left him there while they hit the Fresno crime scene. It looked like the first solid sleep he’d had in a year, so she could let it slide. He was upright again when they made it back late in the afternoon, with a flurry of crime scene photos, witness statements, and miscellaneous documentation spread over his lap and the couch cushions like a macabre quilt, and in the same position when she got back from a series of meetings that ate up her afternoon. Not up for finding some excuse to pry him out of the pit he’d dug for himself, she left him there for security to kick out at the end of the night.

However, the next morning, Jane was there again, stretched out on the couch asleep. A witness interview transcript covered his face, and his fingers clasped the edge of it like he’d fallen asleep in the middle of reading it.

She _knew_ this had been a bad idea.

“Mr. Jane.” No response. Lisbon tapped the side of the couch with her foot. “Jane.”

Jane started, and a hand flailed up in an aborted move to defend himself before he caught himself. Then he fumbled at the papers on his face, pulled them aside, and squinted up at her.

“Agent Lisbon.” His voice cracked, dry and rusty. “‘Morning.”

“When’s the last time you got off this couch?”

His half-aware, blurry inspection of her as he tried to calculate what response would brush her off fastest answered the question. She didn’t have time for this, but apparently it needed doing.

“Get up.”

He staggered when he excavated himself out from under all the paperwork, and was pale and shaky on his feet. He’d probably not eaten on top of everything else. She shoved him in the back and guided him towards the kitchen, grabbed her sandwich from the fridge in the break room kitchen and threw it down on the counter beside him.

“Go on, eat. You’re useless to me if you fall over dead.”

He eyed the sandwich on the counter, then her. His listless and tepid smile sparked her guilt. The guy had problems; he didn’t need pity, just guidance. No more leaving him to his own devices, he needed to be kept busy.

“And it’ll be nothing but paperwork if you do,” she joked, tilting her head to catch his hollow gaze. He was looking at her, but his thoughts were obviously elsewhere. Didn’t take a genius to know where.

He cleared his throat and shrugged, his smile more convincing.

“Well, can’t have that. The stack of paperwork on your desk is already two weeks behind.”

“I—what?”

He picked up the sandwich and took a big bite while she struggled with the implication that he’d gone through the paperwork on her desk. He paused as though considering the flavours and whether or not it was going to work for him, then made a little face of ‘good enough.'

“Thanks,” he said around the bite. “S’good.”

Between the rumpled, slept-in suit, lank hair hanging over his forehead, and the hollow, nearly bruised bags beneath his eyes, Jane looked more like a refugee from the drunk tank than a consultant. One who critiqued her sandwiches and how promptly she filled out her paperwork, no less—and that rankled more than anything, because she already knew she was behind, and she’d taken a sackful home to work on last night—

How did she end up in this situation again? And she was getting off the point, which was that Jane was a wreck.

“Seriously, though; if you want to keep this job, a little professionalism wouldn’t go amiss.”

He paused his methodical chewing and a darted look back towards the camp he’d set up on the corner, then back to her. She had his full attention, now. Most of the time, Jane hunched his shoulders and turned inward like the world around him hurt too much to fully relax into it, running a cautious staring contest like he was turning you inside out to predict your next move, even while his mind wandered elsewhere. When he was fully present, he seemed to grow two inches. She wondered what he’d been like before loss had cut him down at the knees.

Lisbon was the one who looked away first, uncomfortable despite herself.

“I’m not stupid. I know you’re only here because of those files. However, you’ve got an actual job. You’re an asset to my team, and that means I’m going to use you. You sleep, you eat, and you go home and shower like a normal human being. Show up ready to work tomorrow, okay? We’ve got a case I could use you on. But the rest of the time…” She gestured back towards the mess he’d made. “Red John’s yours.”

She was reluctant to concede even this much. However, no matter how unhealthy and wrong it was to let a grieving widower paw through and obsess over the path of destruction left by his family’s murderer, Minelli had struck this deal with Jane and now she was stuck with it.

Didn’t mean she had to stand by idly and watch Jane destroy himself.

“Red John _is_ mine.”

The statement made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. He stared back at her, grave and serious. She had no idea how to respond. Silence sat between them for an awkward handful of seconds.

“Good sandwich,” he said abruptly, hefting the saran-wrapped wedge. He gave her a smile, likely meant to be easy and sincere—she might have bought it, if it wasn’t plastered onto a face with sandy five o’clock shadow covering sleep-deprived lines. “Cheese and cucumber. Can’t go wrong there.”

She couldn’t help her eye-roll, and he chuckled.

“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it. This isn’t a bed and breakfast. Now, go home. I’ve got our Fresno John Doe to deal with.” She turned and walked away.

“Check out industrial bakeries in the area,” Jane mumbled around another bite of sandwich.

“Pardon?” She stopped and swivelled on her heel.

“The, uh, the burn scars. On his forearms.” He waved the sandwich over his arms, dropping a piece of cucumber on his wrinkled suit sleeve. “You get those from hitting racks when you’re working in a hurry. And they’re positioned wrong to be from a home oven, so. Industrial baker.”

“You _did_ go through my desk. What the hell!” She squared off to him.

“I’ll just tidy up those papers before I go,” he said, sliding past her with a gesture to his couch.

The bastard was hiding a smile, she was sure, as he ducked his head and shuffled back to the spot he’d staked out as his. She searched for something more scathing to say after him, but the itch to get Cho and Rigsby on a potential lead won out. She huffed and spun away to go find the boys.

It was worth it. Like a broken clock, Patrick Jane was practically useless except for those twice-a-day moments when he was bang on. Harry Ingram, assistant baker at an industrial kitchen in the Tower district. Once they had a name, it was a short downhill slide to finding the killer; a guilt-ridden coworker who crumbled as soon as they showed up asking questions The case was closed by quitting time, and Lisbon made it back to the bullpen late in the evening after the long drive back ready to introduce Jane to the tradition of case-closed pizza.

For the first time in two days, however, Jane was nowhere to be seen. Probably for the best, though she’d gotten used to his constant presence already. Lisbon made a note to thank him the next day.

In the meantime, Jane’s insights would compensate for the hassle of having a new problem child to train up. It was early days. Besides, if she could keep Hannigan in line for three years, she could handle Patrick Jane.


	2. Rigsby

Rigsby didn’t know what to make of Patrick Jane. He was like an entire ensemble cast of characters crammed into one disordered package, and you never knew who you were going to get.

For weeks, Jane hovered around the edges of meetings and debriefings like he was doing the hokey-pokey, one foot in and one foot out, and no one ever knew if he was listening or not until he blurted out some crazy thing he’d pulled out of thin air. He rarely explained how he jumped to his conclusions—at least not to Rigsby—but even with an explanation it seemed impossible that he figured this stuff out, with the way he lurked, quiet and distracted, never quite all there. He made a big fuss about being a fake, but Rigsby wondered if it was possible that he actually _did_ have powers.

For a while, Rigsby tried to keep his mind blank when he was around Jane, but that just made him think all the more about everything he never wanted anyone to know, and sink into his seat with guilt every time Jane looked at him.

“I really can’t read minds, you know.”

Jane’s voice murmured in his ear, and Rigsby jumped a foot in his seat, swivelling around with a yelp. Jane, hands tucked in his pockets, grinned down at him like a kid who’d stuck a frog down a girl’s shirt just to watch her scream. The mischievous smile stood in stark contrast to the typical cautious, blank vacancy on Jane’s face—it was appearing more and more often, the longer he stuck around. It gave a hint of what he must have been like before Red John.

“Don’t sneak up on a guy who carries a gun, alright?” Rigsby yanked on his collar, unreasonably rattled for a stupid prank.

Jane pulled his hands from his pockets and raised them in mock-surrender.

“Alright, alright. Just wanted you to know I won't tell a soul about your little secret, so you can relax.”

“What?” Rigsby straightened in his chair. At least five things ran through his head in rapid succession, all worse than the one before. “What secret? I don’t have any secrets. What do you know?”

“Nothing. How could I?” Jane tapped his own temple, then pointed at Rigsby with a deranged widening of his eyes. “Not actually psychic.”

He walked away with a last backwards look, fingers still fixed on Rigsby, then wandered off to the couch he’d set up in the corner to flop down with his back to the bullpen to settle in for another nap. He napped more than a cat, despite looking like he never slept at all.

Not actually psychic.

It wasn’t very reassuring.

The boss started dragging Jane along into the field, muttering something about him accidentally setting the office on fire if they left him alone too long. Having to trot around after Jane reminding him about the chain of evidence and crime scene procedures wasn’t Rigsby’s idea of fun, but even he had to admit that Jane could pull an answer out of anyone. There were moments when something shifted and he became confident, appealing—all without so much as tidying his collar or brushing his hair. It was in the way he straightened up, the low and steady tone voice that could melt butter and drop panties, the unnerving and relentless eye contact. Rigsby tried it on a witness once, but all he got was a threat to knee him in the balls.

The hardest to deal with side of Jane was the frustrated, impatient, changeable man who appeared whenever an investigative trip dragged out too long and they were away from the office more than a few hours.

Jane would pull his uncanny mindreading tricks, coercing and badgering witnesses into the truth without finesse—lies, threats, insults, whatever got the job done and the answer they wanted. He’d toss the results at them with disdain, then go wait back in the car for them to pick up the pieces and wrap up. Eventually he started taking his own car to crime scenes, some quirky little blue box, so that he could disappear whenever he liked. It drove Lisbon up the wall, and there’d been more than one yelling match in the bullpen. Jane batted innocent baby blues and told her she’d gotten what she wanted, hadn’t she? Then he turned his attention back to what he really cared about—Red John.

Everyone knew he was only at the CBI for the Red John files. He buried himself in them to the exclusion of all else, including eating and sleeping, even though Lisbon threatened to take them away if he didn’t take care of himself. She never did, though; they all suspected he’d disappear with them in the night if they tried. It all came back to Red John, every time. Jane was using the CBI, and the CBI was using him right back, but it worked so long as they kept the balance.

A month in, they hit their stride—just in time for it to go straight to hell.

A routine door-to-door neighbourhood sweep turned into a gunfight.

Five shots, close enough that Rigsby heard the sizzle of the bullet past his ear between him and Jane. Splinters exploded from the shots that hit the door frame and stung his face and neck.

Jane didn’t even flinch, standing stupidly in the open doorway. His hands were still in his pockets.

“Get down!”

Rigsby shoved hard with his shoulder and knocked Jane down in time to shoot the suspect as he lined up for his sixth shot. Rigsby swept into the small apartment, stepping over Jane sprawled in the doorway on the dingy entrance carpet, and into the bedroom just as another guy disappeared through the window.

“Cho! Runner out the south side!” he bellowed, knowing Cho would have come running at the sound of shots.

Cho’s shouted acknowledgement, then the pounding of feet down the narrow alleyway.

Rigsby finished his sweep, then knelt to check the man lying on the floor. Definitely dead.

In the sudden quiet, all he felt was relief. In the kill or be killed equation, he gratefully took the winning side.

He’d freak out about this later tonight when the adrenaline wore off and it hit him that he’d taken a life, have a good cry in the mandated counselling sessions, then move on. It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last.

“I need a car 49th and Douglas. Suspect on foot heading east.” Lisbon was in the doorway. She covered the cell and scanned over the scene. “You got this?”

“Yeah, Boss.”

“Where’s Jane?”

Rigsby looked up and around, but Jane was nowhere to be seen. A thrill of panic flared in his stomach, but a sound came from the bathroom. He leaned back to look through the cracked door.

Jane was over the toilet heaving his guts out.

Lisbon interpreted Rigsby’s awkward gesture correctly and grimaced, but her attention was quickly pulled back to the phone.

“Take care of it,” she mouthed with a wave, and ducked back out into the sunshine beyond.

Take care of it. Right.

He got up and tentatively knocked on the door, uncertain if he should go in.

“Jane?” A cough, and another retch. “Jane. You okay?”

Rigsby checked over his shoulder, but no one came to save him; it was just them. He hesitated another few moments at the door, then went to get a glass from the kitchen cupboard, filled it with water, and brought it back to the bathroom.

Jane didn’t look up or acknowledge his presence. His panting breath echoed loudly in the toilet bowl. Rigsby leaned over to pat him on the back, but Jane flinched at the touch, so he backed off. Rigsby sat on the edge of the tub and waited. Jane heaved again, dry and painful, then subsided once more.

An interminable time later, Jane fumbled for the toilet handle and flushed. He sat back on the tile with a groan, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, eyes closed. His waxy pale skin was dotted with sweat, and he needed both hands to hold the offered glass of water, shaking as he was. He swished a mouthful around and spat it into the toilet, then took a few tentative sips before resting his head back against the cabinet.

“Sorry. Sorry, I didn’t—I didn’t expect…” Jane trailed off. He closed his mouth and breathed through his nose with slow, steady breaths.

Rigsby didn’t really know what to say, or how to deal with this Jane, slumped and unguarded.

“It’s okay.” The bathroom was small and grimy, and a dead body lay in the other room, and he had no idea if Cho and Lisbon needed help or not, but Jane looked like he was going into shock. An ambulance would be coming with the squad cars, he should get Jane outside. “You think you can get up?”

Jane didn’t answer him right away, busy breathing carefully. Eventually he nodded, and let Rigsby help him up from the floor. He had to brace Jane keep him upright once he made it to his feet, and he kept a hand on Jane’s back to guide him carefully out of the bathroom.

The living room smelled like death; the horrible, unnatural stink of blood and offal, made worse by the hot and stuffy atmosphere of a poorly ventilated apartment in the heat of the California summer. Jane cringed away from the corpse in the spreading pool of blood and turned towards Rigsby like he might hide his face in Rigsby’s chest.

“Let’s get outside,” Rigsby urged.

Jane nodded, bobble-headed and clumsy, but his gaze defocused and eyelids drooped as he took a step. He mumbled something that never quite made it to words, and, semi-conscious, toppled forward into Rigsby. He nearly slid down to the floor before Rigsby caught him under the arms in a near-embrace.

“Whoa, hey! Gotcha—here we go.” Rigsby half-dragged him through to the door and out into the fresh air beyond. Jane was lighter than he should have been, skinny in a way that wasn’t healthy.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Jane mumbled.

Jane stooped over to get his head down just outside the apartment door, where the dead body was visible if Jane looked up. Rigsby slid between him and the door to block the view, gave him another moment to breathe, then took hold of Jane’s arm again and gently tugged.

“Come on. You can sit down and rest in the car.”

Jane let himself be led away, leaning into Rigby’s side. The farther they got from the apartment, the stronger Jane’s unsteady steps became, until he was upright and shook off Rigsby’s supporting hold. He looked like he might vomit again any moment, he had a little more colour in his cheeks.

“Thanks, Rigsby.” Jane leaned his folded forearms on the side of the SUV and laid his head on them, face hidden. “Sorry about that.”

“Hey, it’s not your fault. It’s not easy to see a death,” Rigsby said—then immediately regretted it. If anyone had seen the worst side of death, it was Jane; he didn’t need condescending, fatuous platitudes from anyone. “I mean, uh. Like, when it’s, you know…“

“I know,” Jane said, mercifully interrupting the worst, most awkward apology of his life.

“Yeah.” Rigsby scratched the back of his head. “Hey, do you need more water? Or something to eat? Maybe it’ll settle your stomach.” He patted his jacket pockets in sudden inspiration. “Oh, hey, I’ve got an—“

“Energy bar.” Without raising his head, Jane freed and lifted one hand and presented the foil-wrapped bar that had been in Rigby’s pocket. “I’m good. You go do,” he rotated his hand at the wrist in a winding motion vaguely in the direction of the apartment, the bar turned into a conductor’s wand, “whatever it is that you need to do.”

Rigsby stuttered, searching his pockets and finding them empty. Jane had picked his pockets while half-passed out? What the hell did you do with a guy like that? Surely he should be doing a little more than pushing Jane out of the way of flying bullets and keeping a supply of energy bars in his pockets for Jane to treat like his own personal convenience store.

“‘Stay here. I’m going to check in with Lisbon and Cho.”

“Yep. Go serve and protect.”

There was an edge to the words that made Rigsby wonder if that was a dig at the lethal force he’d had to take. Worrying about Jane had temporarily taken Rigsby’s mind off the fact that the dead body back there was there because of him, but it came rushing back. He closed his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose hard. He had plenty of time to think about that later, and work to do now.

“Rigsby.”

He looked up, and Jane had his gaze fixed on him, now leaning on the car and facing him. Jane’s full attention was riveting. Gone was the shock-induced fragility, and in place was the confident, assertive guy, the one who was slowly replacing the shambling mess who’d walked into the CBI a month ago. Jane took his wrist, hand cold but steady as he squeezed gently.

“You did what you had to do.”

Rigsby swallowed down the lump and blinked, inexplicably awash with grateful relief. Jane was not actually psychic, yet knew exactly what he was thinking. He wasn’t quite sure how taking care of Jane became a counselling session to make _him_ feel better.

Maybe it wasn’t so bad having Jane around, whoever he turned out to be.

Jane smiled, and tipped his head down the street, finally breaking his gaze away and releasing Rigsby.

“Go on.”

“‘Kay. Thanks, Jane.”

Rigsby pulled his cell from his pocket and dialled Lisbon’s number. Time to move on. He could think about everything later.


	3. Cho

“This is nice of you, Cho, but you don’t have to—“

“I’m not being nice. Boss says you need some training if you’re going to be in the field.”

That was the polite version. They all had even money on whether Jane would get himself killed by a witness or grieving family member he insulted, a POI he got in the way of, or kill himself when he finally walked off the deep end thanks to the sleepless nights he spent buried in the Red John files. Lisbon had ordered Cho to get Jane in the gym and ‘out of his head.’ He was dubious about the chances of success, but orders were orders.

“I’m more of a lover than a fighter.” Jane’s fingers rubbed together, either a compulsive twitch or a self-soothing gesture.

More telling was the subtly hunched posture, arm wrapped across his belly. Caught off guard in the hallway by Cho’s cold approach, Jane’s body language was like that of a kicked dog. However, Jane had the uncanny ability to use his own vulnerabilities to his advantage, so he didn’t need any of Cho’s pity.

“You’re neither. Rigsby says you stood there like a post in the middle of a firefight, then threw up on your shoes.”

“I threw up in a toilet.” Jane dropped his arms from their defensive position and shrugged one shoulder in graceful defeat. “But I take your point.”

“Good. I can teach you the basics of self-defence, get you started with some workout routines. Meet me downstairs in the gym in half an hour.”

He walked away before Jane had a chance to counter. Either Jane would show, or he wouldn’t. Cho didn’t bother speculating which it would be, as Jane made it a policy to do the opposite of what everyone expected of him. Either way, Cho would tell Lisbon he’d done what he could. She might be willing to baby the guy, but Jane was a grown man able to make his own decisions.

 

***

 

Cho was ready to leave when Jane finally stepped through the door. Cho dropped his gym bag back onto the bench and went to the middle of the mat.

Jane paused in the doorway and peered around the room, taking in every inch of the space; cream walls, free weights and resistance machines in the corner, a wall lined with mirrors, and a matted area for sparring. He took a few more half steps in, half-smiling like he was sure a joke was about to be pulled on him.

“So, this is where you’re going to teach me to kick ass and take names?”

“Not if you stay over there.”

Cho folded his arms and waited as Jane went through some kind of elaborate mental conversation with himself, then went over to the bench along the wall. He shrugged off his suit jacket and tossed it down, kicked off his shoes, then trotted over to Cho. He bounced on the balls of his feet as he rolled up his sleeves, making a show of preparing himself. He was still wearing his suit vest.

“Okay, let’s do this,” Jane said as he clapped his hands together. “Is the stoic Terminator routine part of the training?”

Figured that Jane’s opening shot would be a verbal provocation. The guy was determined to get his ass kicked in a fight. Cho ignored it.

“Do you want to put on some exercise clothes?”

“Why? If I ever need any of this stuff, this is what I’ll be wearing.”

He literally might; Cho hadn’t seen Jane in anything other than two different wrinkled suits and crumpled shirts, and the same dusty, beat-up brown dress shoes.

“Point taken. Okay, what do you already know?”

“How to run fast.” Jane grinned.

“Solid strategy. Done any self-defense training before?”

Jane shook his head no.

“Then first thing we’ll do is breaking wrist holds. Here, grab my arm like this.” He demonstrated with his hand, then stepped closer and held his arm out to Jane, reaching to take Jane’s hand and position it.

Jane took an instant step back in mirror to Cho’s approach, head pulling back and arms tucked close to his body. He stayed frozen and withdrawn for a handful of seconds, then visibly relaxed. He shoved his hands into his pockets and shook his head, smiling. It was a good approximation of embarrassment, but he was too tense to pull it off.

“No—you know what, it’s fine. I don’t really need this. I can figure it out, if that’s what Lisbon’s worried about. I’ll do my homework.”

“You can’t learn to fight from a book, Jane.”

Jane never had any problem touching people. He was a hugger—though they were starting to figure out that’s how he picked pockets and left presents like a cat leaving dead birds in their shoes. _Being_ touched seemed to be different.

He’d seen the same half-wild look of panic in the eyes of more than one friend after they’d left the army. He tucked his hands behind his back to decrease the threat.

“I won’t hurt you,” Cho said. Even a smart guy like Jane needed to hear the obvious once in a while.

Jane tracked the motion. His mouth twisted up and he looked away with an unamused laugh. He didn’t like being managed. However, it worked—his shoulders slumped and he pulled his hands from his pockets.

“I know you won’t.” Jane’s tight smile eased, became sincere. Quiet. “You’re a good person. You’re all good people.”

Cho folded his arms, temporarily puzzled. Of all of Jane’s array of deflections, his sincerity was the most unnerving.

“Don’t hug me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Jane wiggled his socked toes against the mat, and Cho waited. It wasn’t long before Jane tipped his head deferentially.

“Alright, show me.”

Cho demonstrated the hold again, and this time let Jane take hold of his arm and initiate the contact. No flinch this time, so they continued on.

Unsurprisingly, Jane was a fast learner. They stuck to breaking arm holds and wrist locks. With Jane’s skittishness, headlocks and holds from behind could wait. Besides, Jane’s most likely problem was shooting off his mouth and getting punched or shot. Cho made a note to teach him some boxing dodges.

Jane flagged fast. After mild exertion, he was panting. They broke for a drink of water.

“You need to get in shape,” he said as Jane took a deep draught from the water fountain.

“Thanks for that,” Jane said as he straightened up. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and then patted his belly. “The pants still fit, I’m not doing too bad.”

“You’re not trying to look good for TV. You’re trying to run away from the guy with the gun who’s shooting at you.”

“I don’t care what I look like,” Jane protested, unexpectedly defensive.

“Yeah, I can tell.” The shot was a little cheap, but Jane snorted rather than taking offense. He was self-aware enough to recognize his Howard Hughes routine. “So what do you want?”

Jane shook his head silently and stared at the floor.

He wouldn’t say it, but the answer was obvious.

“You want Red John.”

That got Jane’s attention. He raised his head and the gleam in his eye—not panic, but similar, somewhere in the same family—was not entirely stable.

Cho had no idea why the CBI let Jane stay. He was trouble. Maybe because they knew something much worse would happen if they let him go off on his own. At least here, they could keep tabs on him. Who knew; they might be able to help him.

“If you want to catch Red John, you’re going to need stamina,” Cho said, throwing out the hook. “A strong wind would take you down right now, let alone a serial killer.”

Jane took that in. His brow wrinkled in thought, then he nodded. A bite.

“What do you recommend?”

Cho set out an exercise routine for Jane, something that might anchor him into a regular schedule. At the very least, he pointed out, Jane could come shower down here and clean up once in a while if he couldn’t be bothered to go home and do it, and that would get Lisbon off his back.

Jane listened and let him self be guided through a few more exercises. When they were all done, he abruptly turned with a smile and with one quick step in he hugged Cho—a full-body, unrestrained, warm blanket hug. He even laid his head on Cho’s shoulder like a child.

“Thank you,” Jane said, his voice muffled.

“I told you not to hug me.”

“But you’re so huggable,” Jane crooned, and tightened his arms. “Like a big robotic teddy bear.”

Cho surrendered with a sigh. He wrapped his arms around Jane to return the hug and settle in until Jane was done. There was no point wondering about why; Jane would do as he did. With luck, they could keep him alive while he did it.

It was a nice enough hug.


	4. Red John

There were two kinds of kills: business and pleasure. The Jane girls ticked both boxes. Nice of Patrick to have such pretty toys to take away.

The media coverage spread the name Red John across the country; never had misery been so photogenic. For a while, they were media darlings, him and Patrick. The paparazzi finished the job that he started, hounding the grieving widower and father and preying on his loss to fill another tabloid column, spreading far and wide his hysterical denouncements of his fake psychic skills. Patrick’s humility was delivered via the same medium as his insults, and that was more than satisfying.

He kept tabs on Patrick Jane long enough to get news of his breakdown, suicide attempt, and subsequent institutionalization, then forgot him.

Forgot him right up until the little worm crawled out of the muck and back into the light.

Imagine his surprise when Patrick Jane tottered up to a crime scene, wobbling on unsteady legs like a newborn foal.

Did he really think returning to his psychic schtick was the thing to do? Had his mental break left him thinking he really did have psychic powers? He’d gut Patrick and leave him to die slowly in the room where he’d killed his wife and child. Let him dwell on _that_ for his last moments.

He’d staged an outdoor scene this time, the better to appreciate the resulting fanfare with police, media, and the public, and he rode the wave of looky-loos closer to get a better look. Red John’s smile beamed down on Patrick, benevolent and giving.

For a moment, it felt as though Patrick were looking at him, _seeing_ him. How _offensive_.

But no. Patrick wasn’t running his scam. The sleazy, cheap artifice had been stripped away to leave a naked, exposed soul staring up at his mark like a wide-eyed acolyte.

Patrick had been granted clarity. He’d been given a gift, and he didn’t even know it.

It took two agents to drag Patrick away. He fought, wriggling and writhing, struggling to return to the scene, but they locked him in a squad car to contain him.

It wasn’t fear or panic—it was devotion. Hardened, manic devotion.

Patrick Jane was CBI’s latest consultant and a gifted investigator, said the Association grapevine; a loose cannon, barely in control, closing cases like a wizard. Obsessed with Red John. A lunatic on a crusade. A hint of impressed awe coloured their voices when they made their reports.

On a lark, he killed again a month later. A hasty rush job, but it wasn’t about the kill. He was testing a theory.

Sure enough, Patrick came. Then again, and again. Ring the bell, and Patrick showed up drooling for whatever scraps he could find. His devotion was almost sweet.

The fool thought he was a _hunter_.

He had lots of people to do what he wanted, but making Patrick dance? Infinitely more satisfying. Patrick maintained the illusion that he was in control, that it was a game—that he had a chance of winning.

***

`

Five years and eight smiles later, Patrick Jane and Sheriff Thomas McAllister shook hands over a dead girl.

They were both playing parts—he the bumbling local sheriff; Jane the sane, controlled consultant. Neither were true, but Jane was arrogant enough to buy both acts. He flaunted his little tricks, grinning like a fool as he charmed and flattered, thinking himself the master manipulator. Worse, his ego inflated when he ran his little schemes and caught the killers, proud as a child with a tiny fish he caught in a stream.

Time to remind Patrick Jane of who he really was.

For this smile, he would need something a little different. He’d miss the tradition of drawing it himself, but nothing said pizazz like skywriting.


End file.
